


Well, What Do You Know?

by LainellaFay



Series: Annoying, Nosy Colleagues [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drunk Thranduil, Father/Son Incest, Legolas is most probably in denial, M/M, Thranduil eventually realises his feelings, Thranduil feels guilty, Totally not innocent feelings, he probably thinks he's going to hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 19:25:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3866959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LainellaFay/pseuds/LainellaFay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's in love with his son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Well, What Do You Know?

**Author's Note:**

> Oh look I wrote a sequel, which is slowly turning into a series and I have _assignments_ , _exams_ , I cannot be doing this, but I am, and I'm going to hell and burn for my decisions. I may or may not be too invested in this pairing. Oops.
> 
> Headcanon that Sindarin is a dialect from Thranduil and Legolas's hometown whenever it is a Modern AU.
> 
> Also, I have a tumblr where I post updates, drabbles and misc - random reblogs of fandoms/ships. Yeah. Link's on my profile.

.

.

.

“Legolas.”

His son stubbornly set his jaw and met his gaze; in this very act showing no signs of fear nor submission and Thranduil cannot help the swell of pride running through his veins, because it reminded him so much of _himself_ —unyielding as a rock; such were the traits of his forefathers. He crushes the feeling before it surfaced and slammed the stack of newspaper clippings and printed advertisements onto the glass coffee table.

“What is the meaning of this?”

“I wish to move out.”

“Why?” Thranduil hissed through gritted teeth. “We have been living comfortably in this house your entire life. Why the need to waste valuable resources for a second abode?”

“I’m old enough to make my own decisions, _Ada_.” Legolas narrowed his eyes in anger. “I’m not a child anymore. Everyone else my age are living their lives separate from their parents’. Why shan’t I do the same?”

“If everyone on the planet jumped into a volcano, would you?”

“You can’t stop me. I don’t need your permission, I have my own funds.”

Thranduil whipped around, long silver-blond hair whirling like a tornado. “You are _not_ leaving this house!” he seethed, eyes flaring up with anger as he took a step towards his son, who for his credit, did not flinch nor back away. A staring battle was engaged, which ended when Thranduil calmed himself as best he could and softly, concernedly said, “What brought this on, _ion nín_? You’ve never had a problem living under my roof a few months ago, three weeks ago, not until—“ he abruptly cut himself off, eyes widening in recognition. Thranduil gulped, turning away, unable to show his shameful face to his dear, innocent child. “Do as you wish,” he finally uttered, barely audible to even Legolas’s sharp ears.

Thranduil didn’t wait to witness his son’s reaction, quickly fleeing the scene like a thief caught in the act.

His son. His _son_ didn’t even want to be in his presence anymore.

It took him all his effort to keep the tears in.

 

.~.

 

Reese Pallot.

Thranduil tried really hard to keep that death glare from surfacing upon seeing the swagger in his colleague’s strut. He focused on his breathing and stared intensely into the glowing screen of his computer. But perhaps it had something to do with the vain, arrogant git finding Thranduil to be ‘one of him’, with his silky smooth silver blond hair that draped down to the lower half of his back, mesmerising blue eyes, and aristocratic features, that he always found himself the highlight of Pallot’s attention.

“Broke another fair maiden’s heart today, Thranduil?”

“Embezzled the company today, Reese?”

“You think me so bold.”

“I speak naught but the truth,” Thranduil replied, forcing a smile rather than the grimace that wanted to grace his features at the sight of the devil. “Whatever brings you to my station?”

Pallot took the liberty to sit himself on his desk. Thranduil narrowed his eyes at the sheets of paper now crumpled under the fleshy bottom of his colleague. “Just wondering whether the sounds I hear are the ringing of wedding bells or the sobs of a heartbroken little miss. How _is_ it going with the pretty thing you were with on Christmas Eve?”

“You mean your party.”

“Which was held on Christmas Eve.” Pallot took a sip of his coffee and said, “I never did quite catch the young thing’s name; her real name, mind you, not that,” a grimace fleeted across his greasy face, “ _pet_ name you got going on.”

Thranduil flicked a glance at the multiple photo frames of his son sitting innocently on the space of his desk and caught Pallot doing the same.

“My relationship with _Legolas_ is going absolutely _perfect_ ,” Thranduil purred.

Pallot cringed and raised his eyebrows, emphasizing on the wrinkles that formed throughout the years—wrinkles that the vain man always denied existed—and leant forwards, forcing Thranduil to push himself backwards into the cushion of his desk chair to place as much distance as he could between them. “If I hadn’t known you weren’t talking about your son…” He trailed off, visibly disturbed to go any further about the topic. “So it’s wedding bells I hear?”

Thranduil plastered the false smile he always put up in the presence of his colleague and said, “Perfection and life time commitment are not always on the same side of a coin, Reese.”

“You can’t still be pining for your dead wife, Thranduil.”

“If you feel so, you obviously don’t love your wife the same as I did mine,” Thranduil countered.

Pallot’s smile faltered as the words sunk in. Thranduil felt a small sense of accomplishment and relished in the feeling. “Well. She’s too young for you anyway.” Hitting the ground clumsily, Pallot drained off the rest of his coffee and remarked, “Don’t destroy the company in my absence.”

“You took the words right from my mouth.”

 

.~.

 

The red liquid swished in the glass as he stumbled, balance hindered by the veil of haziness coating his senses. Thranduil staggered over to the luxurious sky blue sofa and flopped onto it, much to his friend’s dismay, as the wine spilled over the edge of the glass and left splattered red dots on the leather.

Thranduil giggled at the resemblance it made to a crime scene.

“You’re a horrible drunk,” Elrond scolded in displeasure. Pulling out a few pieces of tissue from its box, Elrond held them out with his fingers, flicking the ends towards the still giggling Thranduil. “Now wipe that up before they stain.”

The blond ignored him, giggles dying down and expression turning sombre. Thranduil examined the red spots closely and dragged a finger through them, turning the dots into thin lines, and round, connecting them. He barely registered Elrond’s exasperated groan. “Red, the colour of my blood,” Thranduil mused. “How much do I have to spill for my sin to be erased? Blood, my blood, oh…”

“What in heaven’s name is the matter with you?”

“My own blood detests me so,” Thranduil continued, much to his friend’s frustration. Elrond’s hand barged into his line of sight and with a swipe, the strange pattern he created vanished. Thranduil blinked dazedly. “Elrond.”

“Are you finally going to spill your thoughts rather than my wine? Inviting yourself into my house, drinking my wine, _nearly_ destroying my mother’s furniture; Thranduil, I demand an explanation.”

“Fuck you.”

Thranduil grinned lopsidedly at his friend’s pursed lips and simmering anger within. He downed the rest of the wine and tossed the glass onto the rug; its softness saving the glass from shattering. His head lolled back and hit the armrest; it made a lovely pillow, the thought flickered through his foggy brain.

 _“Well, fuck you too,”_ he heard his friend’s reply just before he passed out, lopsided grin still on his lips. His last thought that night was that Elrond was definitely pissed as hell; it took lots for the man to lose it and start cussing.

Well…he’ll worry about that in the morning.

 

.~.

 

He woke up in a haze of pain and numbness and went home with a throb in his head and incessant ringing in his ears. In other words, Thranduil felt like Grade A shit. To his credit, he made it to the lounge before collapsing on the couch—yet another bed forsaken for the immediate comfort of a sitting room furniture. Unfortunately, comfort was not to be found for Thranduil heard the shuffling of his son in the kitchen and despite Legolas’s efforts to remain as silent as possible, every single sound made felt like the roaring of a vacuum to Thranduil’s ears, further agitating his migraine, and his mood.

He slapped a palm over his eyes and groaned, staggering onto his feet before stumbling into the kitchen. Legolas took one look at him and with a disapproving frown, handed him a bottle of pills which Thranduil accepted gratefully, swallowing them dry.

“I’m going to Aragorn’s.”

In the middle of pouring himself a glass of water, Thranduil barely registered his son’s remark, replying with an undignified grunt. Legolas chewed on the corner of his toast. Thranduil reached out for the butter knife before stilling. “Aragorn’s?” he asked, brows furrowing as he dug through his memories. “Isn’t he over to the east?”

“Yes.”

“You’re flying today?” Thranduil frowned. Never had his son plan a trip across states without first informing him.

“I leave at four.” Legolas neared the end of his toast, scraping away the burnt bits before finishing it off. He rubbed his hands above the plate, getting rid of crumbs that stuck persistently onto his palms. He then picked up his mug of coffee and drained it. Not once did he spare a glance at his father.

Thranduil felt his hands curl into fists. “How long?”

The rush of running water filled the space and Legolas answered, “A few days.”

Thranduil nodded to himself and slowly breathed out, his nostrils flaring slightly, as he tried to calm his perturbed heart. “You’ll be back?” _Home_ , the word remained unsaid but the message was heard by both parties loud and clear.

Porcelain clanged against metal as Legolas stacked his now clean plate onto the drying rack, before wiping his hands dry with the fluffy green towel that hung from a hook stuck on the tiles. “Yes,” Legolas replied after what felt like ages and Thranduil released the breath he didn’t know he had been holding.

His son wasn’t leaving him yet. Not right then. _Not yet_.

But he knew it was only a matter of time, for his wilful son had made his decision and Thranduil had only himself to blame. Guilt gripped his stomach in her wretched hold; Thranduil lost what little appetite he had.

“How’s house-hunting going?” The words choked him like a noose.

Legolas’s hands clenched around the edge of the sink. “I have a few preferences…” his son answered tensely. “Nothing certain as of yet.”

Thranduil opened his mouth, ready to _beg_ , to _plead_ for his son to stay— _please, please, my son, don’t go_ —but nothing escaped, not a single sound. He slowly shut his eyes, shielding the range of emotions in cerulean orbs from the outside world. He didn’t have the right; not even to beg on his knees, after all, he did give his word—however reluctantly, he did give his word.

“Okay,” he said instead, after the long battle with his mind. “Okay,” he repeated with a swallow, “let me know when you come to a conclusion. I will make background checks.” He turned away from his son, with a voice barely a whisper, he said, “Have a safe flight.”

 

.~.

 

Seventy-five hours, fifty-six minutes and thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty three seconds.

Every tick of the clock in the absence of his son was a lifetime of longing and regret.

Thranduil rest his aching head over the top of his office chair, staring up at the pale white ceiling. For the first time, the line of photographs displayed on his desk mocked him; no longer did they offer comfort, but rather, torment. They seemed to scream: _look at what you had, look at what you fucked up_.

Why. Why why why _why_?

“Come back to me,” he muttered, with a wistful, twisted smile. “Come back to me, my son, my—“

_My—what?_

He was going out of his mind.

 

.~.

 

“Trouble in paradise?”

Thranduil gnashed his teeth, curling his palms around the armrests of his chair, needing an anchor, a distraction before his hands grew a mind of their own and decided to smash the slimy face together. Oh, how he ached to do just that. To hold Pallot responsible for the sin he committed and pummel his fists into his nose, taking in the pleasure of seeing bright red blood seep into the carpet as cold, unseeing eyes remain frozen in shock and horror but rationality took dominance and quelled the blood thirst in his veins.

Wrong. It was wrong.

Even if Pallot was the one who had planted the seed, it was Thranduil who allowed it to sprout, to grow, to bloom.

“No,” he snapped in reply.

“Oh?” Pallot questioned in an irksome tone. As if Thranduil didn’t have enough worries to start! “Then I suppose those dark circles came from too many sleepless nights of pleasure?”

“Think as you wish.” He rubbed his temple. He was tired. He didn’t want to go through another night alone in his home. He didn’t want to miss Legolas this much. He was a _father_ ; parents let their children go all the time. He could— _had_ _to_ —do it. He could.

So why was his heart ripping itself into two with the thought?

“Come Thranduil, a friend to a friend, you can tell me anything. How’s your little bird in bed?”

Thranduil swore he tried to still his hand. Really, he did.

 

.~.

 

He was nothing more than a pathetic lump on the couch when his son came running in, huffing and puffing, worry and fear present on those fine features; they shouldn’t be there, he had thought. Legolas squinted in the dark as his eyes adjusted to it and finally landed on his father, visibly deflating with relief upon seeing no obvious marks or injury.

“ _Ada_ ,” his son cried, crumpling down onto the rug beside him. Fingers gripped Thranduil’s own as Legolas continued, “Elrond called me and oh god I—I thought you were—he said you were in a fight and I—I—“

“ _Ion_ _nín_ ,” Thranduil interrupted. A sick, cruel part of him wondered whether he was dreaming; this cannot be real, his son cannot be in front of him, crying over him, holding his hand. Legolas hated him. The larger part of him, the part that could still distinguish between reality and fantasy, took control. “You’re home.”

“Yes, yes I’m home, _Ada_.”

Thranduil tightened his hold on his son’s hand, knuckles turning white. The corners of his lips lifted just the slightest. “I’m so glad. So glad. Legolas—“ he choked on the rest of the sentence and for the first time in years, Thranduil cried in front of his son.

 

.~.

 

The return of his son cleared his muddled brain and Thranduil realised three things: he was out of a job, his son didn’t hate him, and he was in love with his son.

He was _in love_ with his son.

Thranduil chuckled. Of course. Of course he was.


End file.
